


Falling In Love On Paper

by nighttimelights



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Mild Hurt/Comfort, Other, Pen Pals, Reader x UF Sans - Freeform, Underfell Sans (Undertale), no pronouns used for reader so yknow maximum insertability, sort of slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24086383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nighttimelights/pseuds/nighttimelights
Summary: You've joined the new Pen Pal Program, part of the rehabilitation program with Greater Ebott's Monster Support Institute. Sure, you're just a human without much power, but the monsters that are checked into GEMSI are struggling with PTSD and integrating into Surface life. You may not hold any political sway, but... maybe exchanging letters with a monster cooped up in the nice but nonetheless confined facility might be a way you could make a positive difference-You just didn't expect the untidy scrawl of a seemingly gruff, pissed-off, butfunnyunnamed monster on the other end of your exchanges to start making you look forward to the mail delivery quite so much.((Reader x UF Sans))
Relationships: Sans (Undertale)/Reader
Comments: 95
Kudos: 386





	1. Pen Pals

  
  


The soft fluorescent glow of your computer screen caught the rim of your mug, gentle and stark against the low lights of your small apartment's living space. Your hands were wrapped around the warm ceramic, just shy of too-hot and appreciating it.

You'd been sure that making just _one_ more mug of tea would help your mind focus, would give you just that last needed bit of space from the looping track of anxious hesitance so you could refocus and actually make some headway-

-nonetheless, here you were, staring at a sparse few words and the mocking blink of the blinking text cursor on the next line of your text document.

> _Dear [insert his name here??],_
> 
> |

A few moments passed.

With a forced exhale from your nose, you groaned and set down your tea before highlighting the introductory line and deleting it.

“They _literally_ won't tell me his name, why bother with that,” you grumbled to yourself, fingertips drumming softly enough to keep from depressing the keys. “And ' _dear_ '... what am I, the guy's aunt?”

A little part of you was starting to curse your sporadic decision to sign up for this pen pal program. You hadn't written a proper letter since those exercises in elementary school. Sure, maybe a card or two on some family member's birthday here and there, but...

… _but nothing_ , you reminded yourself, mentally shaking the beginnings of yet another spiral of self-doubt. This decision wasn't about you – or if it was, it was in the hopes you could make even the _tiniest_ positive difference.

Monsters had surfaced two years ago; things were still tense between humankind and monsterkind, but... well, certainly better than they had been. Citizenship, basic _sentient being_ rights, even some social safety net workings thanks to a particularly vocal and growing set of human allies surprising even the guarded, wary, battle-ravaged monster population with their support. There were partnerships in scholarly efforts in the works, as well as ongoing political efforts and an embassy and... well, a lot more than was above your common-folk kind of paygrade, frankly.

You were at a few of those protests in favor of monster rights, at least. You were proud to look back and be able to say that – on the right side of history, and all, you had no doubt. Equal rights for sentient beings? It _should_ be a no-brainer. Even more so when it had been humans that had apparently sealed them all down there and apparently promptly forgot them.

… But all the positive strides didn't mean that things were perfect. Not by a long shot.

Nor did it mean that you felt right just... watching it happen, besides showing up at some protests and rallies now and then.

Sure, you didn't have any political power, but... well, it was a bit depressing, sinking more and more into those thoughts as recurring antagonizing efforts from a loud, vicious minority of humans made things harder for monsters in your strange, lively city of New Ebott. Monsters had gained rights, but that didn't mean some humans didn't try and _'exercise their right to only serve who they wanted'_ and attempt to start a trend of exclusionary tactics. Nor did it mean that those same loud humans didn't try and garner intolerant people like them from places further than the valley of the mountain monsters had come out from, to bulk up their cruddy protests and get in the faces of the monsters just trying to build new lives aboveground-

You sat back with a huff, blank white document highlighting the shadow under your eyes as your fingertips met your temples. Massaging gently, you tried to release the frown you hadn't realized had drawing down your features as your thoughts spiraled.

… the point was, you'd been feeling... a bit useless, a bit restless. You didn't have much power – but, well, you had the power to affect a _little_ change, surely – with at least an individual, here or there. In passing interactions, sure, but also...

You'd heard the opportunity advertised on a local monster-positive radioshow, hosted by both a human and a monster. You liked to tune in- not only were they funny and interesting, and had more than a little dramatic flare, but they helped remind you that those jerks really were the minority- that there was hope, and plenty of people trying to make a difference.

“- _and listen up, all you aspiring writers and other folks with a gift for putting words to paper,”_ the radio show's human host had announced last week; you had perked up from where you'd been listening in. “ _Greater Ebott's Monster Support Institute has a budding program they'd like us to pitch to you all. As we've talked about before-”_

“ _-Oh, at delightful and inquisitive length, no less-”_ the other host had chimed in with his trademark purr-

“- _Exactly, you all know that they're the real deal, by monsters and for monsters, with coordination from human scholars and joint efforts and funding and all- just last week we were talking about the rehabilitation program there. Monsters with, ah-”_

“ _A high LV, love. High LV, and a... history of struggling with managing it, topside. Not all of us can put on an act as convincing as yours truly!”_

“ _Exactly. Some of them struggled with reintegrating – 'specially with the usual rotating circle of jerks. Circlejerks, if you will-”_

“ _Nice one-”_

“ _Thank you, yes, thank you- anyways, they're going through some dedicated work to help them work through the, well, the PTSD, 'n the trauma, and getting out of the, uh, war-time mindset. Good facilities, thank the stars, that was reassuring to find on that tour we did for that segment. Anyways, to get to the point, listeners, they're starting up what's effectively a pen-pal program. They'd like to match the monsters there with a human to exchange letters for the remaining duration of their stay. It's a bit of a small application – wanna make sure you're no troll, and all – but you don't have to be some elite to join in. Just give a damn about monsters, be open to talking to one, and hey- maybe you'll even make a friend! Or not. No guarantees, and all, but seriously- why not give it a chance, and reach out?”_

That same evening, perhaps after one _tiny_ bracing drink downed while making dinner, you'd looked up the facility's website and clicked through till you found the newly constructed page where you could apply.

Last weekend, you'd gotten a call from a rough voiced but pleasant woman- one brisk but thorough short interview later, she'd said they'd contact you if and when they could pair you with someone.

This morning, you'd gotten that call.

Sipping at your tea, you mused that this might be a bit easier if they'd given you... well, pretty much any info at all about your soon-to-be pen pal. But apparently participation, while now required of residents there in the grand scheme of their stay, was at their own pace – and in addition, no information beyond their pronouns and that they would respond to you within a week was allowed.

It was for privacy reasons, mostly – and their comfort. The first, in particular, so you couldn't try to look them up and make judgments of their behavior before getting to know them – that _would_ defeat the purpose of the program a bit, wouldn't it – and the latter to give the monster you were writing proper control over the interaction and boost their confidence in the process, which... well, you were warned they might not be _eager_ , even if they were _willing_.

… and damn, your tea had officially lost its heat.

Taking the unsatisfyingly lukewarm drink as a sign that you had to stop waffling and just _do_ it, you put the half-finished mug to the side and shifted your hands to the keyboard-

-and, in a stream of consciousness, began typing.

* * *

> _Hello,_
> 
> _My name is [REDACTED]. Honestly, I haven't written a letter in a decade. Two? Regardless, I'll be honest- I don't know exactly what to say. Whoever you are – all they gave me was that you use he/him – I hope you're doing alright. I guess it'd be moot to ask if you're treated well or if you like your stay at the GEMSI – reporting out here says it's good, and I guess if it's not, you wouldn't be allowed to say otherwise._
> 
> … _Yikes, that's a bit dark. Clearly I'm gonna be the **best** pen pal, oh geez..._
> 
> _That is, I'm gonna do my best! I guess I just want to be up front and say I'm no Hemingway. I'm just a human who works a few jobs, enjoys some video games and shows, and wants to kick a few speciesist butts on occasion. But also not get arrested. Or encourage violence, I suppose, oops. So... no butt-kicking. Letter-writing, instead!_
> 
> _What a... moving call to arms, right? Haha._
> 
> … _Anyways, I guess I'll leave the ball in your court. You can ask whatever you want, I'll try to do my best to answer! Or if you have something you'd wanna talk about that you're more comfortable with focusing on that's cool too. Take care of yourself in there, you've got this human rooting for you!_
> 
> _Best wishes,_
> 
> _[REDACTED]_

  
  


* * *

The Institute had emailed you a scanned copy of the letter the day after you'd sent it – printed and mailed and everything. You supposed it made sense that they blacked out your name from what they gave him... maybe for the same sort of reasons they hadn't told you your new pen pal's name.

The transparency was nice, at least.

… Even if you felt a _little_ embarrassed about your rambling letter. You'd been assured over the phone to just be yourself, to not be overly formal and stiff – it'd probably insult or put the guard up further around any of the monsters in the facility, honestly – but _still_.

Maybe you should have left out the part about butt-kicking...

But when you turned the key in your tiny mailbox to find more than just a few bills and local ad flyers crammed in there only three days after you sent your letter, your heart rate spiked with a bit more hope than worry.

You actually froze, too, staring at the letter, addressed in formal GEMSI lettering on the envelope, your name and address printed in formal lettering.

After only a few seconds of far too much waffling, you practically slammed the mailbox door shut, caught it in a fluster when the it bounced back open, closed it more carefully and locked it, and rushed back to your apartment.

One quick dump of your belongings in an unceremonious heap inside your apartment later, you had barely kicked off your shoes before you were opening it.

Inside was a single, almost empty piece of paper.

* * *

> _the fuck's a hemingway_

  
  


* * *

  
  


You blinked.

You turned the paper over in one hand, head tilting as you scanned it-

That side was empty.

You turned the paper over again, staring at the untidy, undeniably handwritten scrawl.

Your breath huffed out of your nose- and then, suddenly, you _laughed_. Just the once, but bright, loud- and like that, the anxious, worried butterflies in your stomach abated.

“' _the fuck's a hemingway',”_ you wheezed to yourself, hand lifting to your hair, fingers mussing it slightly. You were grinning to an empty apartment, feeling like an idiot, and wondering who on Earth this guy was-

-and also, why the hell _you_ assumed a guy that had been trapped under a mountain his whole life would know who Hemingway was.

Absently you were moving through your apartment, snatching a piece of paper from your dated printer, a pen from an old mug full of half-working writing utensils, and trotted to your kitchen counter. Fixing up your favorite after-shift drink, you leaned on the counter, grin still ruefully lingering on your face.

“He's right, and he should say it,” you chuckled, setting your pen on the paper.

  
  


* * *

> _Hey-_
> 
> _Thanks for making me laugh. Man, if my old high school literature teacher could have heard you... I've never had a better, more hilarious mental image of that rude, wrinkly classics-worshipping jerk. You already have so many points in my book for that._
> 
> _Hemingway's an old human that's been dead for a good while now now. Famous for writing a bunch, basically, including a whole lot of letters that have since been gathered and published. He's either super talented brilliant thinker and a great insight into the human condition, or a dusty old ordinary dude who happened to have his letters published, depending on who you ask... Which means he's probably somewhere in the middle._
> 
> _Wish I knew what to call you, but I guess even my name got censored, so that's probably a moot point._
> 
> _You have any favorite books or writers?_
> 
> _Best wishes,_
> 
> _Your Pen Pal_

* * *

Sans looked up at the sharp rapping on his door.

He huffed, rolling his eyelights. The window letting in the daylight said it was _too damn early_ for any sort of unscheduled appointment... and he'd already had breakfast, too. The clock in his room had long since been dismantled, its ticking mercifully quieted by his own deft, agitated claws.

The same claws he continued to let flow over the strings of the acoustic guitar in his lap, pitch black in finish and well-worn but well-tended on it's fretboard.

The knock sounded again. His frown sharpened, and he simply grunted.

Correctly taking that to be as much acknowledgment as they were going to get, the unknown presence on the other side unlatched the lock and opened the door.

Sans decidedly did _not_ look up from his guitar, continuing to play as he pointedly ignored the intruder into what had been 'his room' for six months.

“You've got mail.”

… Damn.

 _That_ caught his attention.

Still, he refused to show even the slightest bit of interest beyond a jerk of the head towards the coffee table not far from the door. It was messy, strewn with music magazines mostly, and some parts that may or may not have belonged to a clock at one point.

He was damn near certain the institute worker, whatever his name was, rolled his eyes, used to the behavior – but nonetheless, he obliged, and placed it at one semi-clear corner.

“Afternoon's clear for that game in the courtyard, if you end up interested. You-know-who even said they'd join, so...”

Sans didn't take the bait, that _encouraging_ _tone_ , however dry and familiar the humor was in his voice.

A beat passed, a small, acknowledging sigh... and without Sans having ever looked up, the worker left, and the door snapped heavily shut behind him, the locks thudding heavily into place behind him.

 _High risk_ , indeed.

He continued playing for a minute, but his jaw was tense, senses peeled for the sound he was looking for...

...and...

… there.

Footsteps, slowly fading into the hall's distance.

Sans' hands finally stilled, and his head lifted, crimson eyelights burning bright as they trained on the unassuming little folded up paper on the edge of his coffee table.

Pap had brought him the furniture after he'd destroyed the bland, unoffensive standard stuff this damned room came with.

He hadn't had quite enough anger left to break something his _brother_ brought.

That letter, though...

The slight urge to rip it up, just like with the first one, passed through him. It was a sudden urge, vicious and pointless.

Like a lot of things about him.

… But in the end, he hadn't. He didn't know why. Maybe he was past caring enough to rebel in such a stupid way – not like the requirements for leaving this place were gonna change. He'd even gotten around to replying to the... strange... little human that had apparently been tossed to the wolves in this pen pal program in getting matched up with _him_.

Which, who the _hell_ had _you_ pissed off, he couldn't help but bitterly wonder.

… But you had rambled in that letter. That might've been the only thing that had him reply sooner than any of the therapists had to force him to.

You were... genuine.

…

… Maybe.

He huffed, the sound coming harsh through his nasal cavity, and finally set aside his guitar and rose to his feet.

  
  



	2. Pen... Pals?

You were groggily making yourself some eggs when you heard the mail truck rounding the corner.

It was a better shock to your sleepy, Saturday morning state than the coffee you were nursing, or the late spring air drifting in through the window you'd opened. It had been another few days since you'd sent off your letter – give or take the same amount of time since your pen pal's first reply had come.

You were _trying_ not to get your hopes up. Your hopes had, in apparent response, pulled a ladder out of the closet of your subconscious, and were making their merry way upwards.

Nevertheless, you dutifully refrained from abandoning your half-cooked eggs, and even managed to eat your breakfast before you went to slip on some shoes and pocket your keys. And if you'd inhaled your eggs more than swallowed, well... it's not like anyone was there to bear witness to your egg crimes.

You made your way through the apartment complex and along the short walk to the communal mailbox stacks, chiding yourself for the anticipation humming it's way through you. One single letter reply happening in one time frame was no guarantee of a repeating pattern; nor was it likely he was particularly keen on the pen pal program in the first place. The one sentence reply, while hilarious, was reasonable evidence to that end.

… But still, he'd replied faster than the week deadline, and your soft little heart couldn't help but take that as a positive sign, no matter how short his reply had been.

And _stars_ if it didn't lift your spirits higher than they ever usually were in the bleary morning hours when you unlocked your mail box and found, tucked between a flyer for a local pizzeria and a glossy ad for a new grill and bar that had opened up, an envelope with official GEMSI lettering.

Without a doubt, you'd deny to anyone who might ask later if you'd been powerwalking the whole way back to your apartment.

Inside, with a new cup of coffee in hand, you opened up the latest letter.

* * *

> _sounds like a jackass._
> 
> _why d'you wanna know?_

* * *

… Huh.

Your head tilted, rereading the two lines.

Sipping at your coffee, absently flipping the slightly crumpled but appropriately letter-folded piece of paper over like you had the first time. Sure enough, that was all he wrote.

Setting it down, you wandered through your apartment, plucking up a piece of blank paper from your printer's feeder tray again, alongside your favorite old pen. You paused by the windows, the fresh air wafting a bit of steam from your coffee as you tried to think.

By the time you got back to the kitchen counter, your piece of paper set down next to his askew one, you figured you had a response.

* * *

> _Hey there!_
> 
> _Who's the jackass, my old teacher or Hemingway?_
> 
> _As for why I'd want to know what you like to read, if you do, then... why not? I figure that's how conversation goes. It felt weird to send back a letter without asking something, so you'd have something to work with in turn, y'know?_
> 
> _I don't want you thinking I'm the jackass just because I'm an awkward letter writer, haha._
> 
> _Would there be a better question to ask?_
> 
> _Best,_
> 
> _Your Pen Pal_

* * *

“Ah, and before you go for the day- we've got your latest letter here, Sans.”

The scowl on Sans' face twitched, and his glare shifted from the windows across the room to the man dressed in business-casual in the chair across from him.

He'd flipped open that file folder of his again, but rather than pull out some old study or observation sheet, this time he pulled out a tri-folded piece of paper. It had the GEMSI stamp on the outside – the one Sans recognized as being the literal stamp of approval.

Apparently, he was _never_ going to get one of these letters still in their envelope.

Sans looked away again.

“snoopin' through more of my shit again, doc? funny, that - when ya've spent th' last hour lecturin' me on trust bein' a two way street.”

“It's Institute policy,” the man simply replied, half pleasant, half matter-of-fact.

If nothing else, Sans could acknowledge this 'therapist' had at least dropped _half_ the bullshit act after several months of these twice-weekly sessions.

Sans simply grunted in response, and the man gave a rueful half smile as he glanced down towards the paper. He sat comfortably in the semi-modern, casual lounge chair – or maybe it wasn't a lounge chair. Humans made shit complicated, in Sans' experience, with their nuances and technicalities – and applied it to everything, down to where you were or weren't expected to seat your damn coccyx.

The room was bigger, admittedly, than he'd figure a therapist's room would be. A large desk and couple of chairs close to the windowed wall overlooking the facility courtyard; a sofa on one end, tucked amongst a wall of bookshelves adjacent to the window. On the opposite, where they sat now – a few halfway comfortable chairs, Sans figured, and not far from a small countertop where a coffeemaker and electric tea kettle sat, alongside their expected bits and pieces.

Not that Sans had ever once accepted a drink from the salt-and-pepper haired human.

Apparently used to being ignored, the therapist passed the letter thoughtfully from one hand to the other, considering it for just a moment longer. Then, with a shake of his head, he extended it across the space between their chairs.

“For what my word's worth to you, Sans, I didn't read it.”

Sans' eyelights finally shifted to the paper between them, the man's arm remaining outstretched as the paper was glared at.

“but _someone_ fuckin' did,” Sans grumbled under his breath.

Still, as he stood, he snatched it, shoving it into his sweats pocket without care and stalking towards the door.

“Try and think about what I said,” the therapist called after the tense line of his back. “It's give and take. I'm not saying you have to be willing to trade like that with everyone you meet – but consider it with even _one_ person, on even the smallest level-”

Sans lifted his hand without the slightest glance back as he strode through the door he'd already pulled open.

His middle finger was extended.

… The quiet sigh cut off by the door swinging shut behind him wasn't nearly rewarding enough.

He didn't even acknowledge the two workers trailing after him as he strode angrily through the wide hallway, decorated with art and plants and with skylights filtering in the afternoon light to keep the place feeling bright. It cast a soft glow along the floating dust particles, warm in the noncommittal but pleasant light paint color of the walls.

He hated it.

One of the _guards_ behind him cleared their throat.

“You've got permission to go to the courtyard early to-”

“fuck off,” Sans spat as he rounded a third corner. His room was at the end of this shorter corridor, and without breaking stride he shouldered his way through the heavy metal door with a harsh but dull thud. He didn't turn around to see what expressions they had, the disappointment, or the annoyance, or the no doubt fed up eye rolls they gave him.

The door shut behind him. It took a few long seconds, but sure enough, the door's many mechanisms thudded heavily into place.

The silence after it, after the mechanisms stopped rolling and interlocking, after the pair of footsteps retreated, was stark.

“... good riddance,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets-

-only for the crinkling of paper giving way under his fist to catch his attention once again.

He pulled out the crumpled letter, folded and stamped with green ink on the outside. He frowned as he smoothed it out to it's original shape.

“... quick one to write back, ain't ya,” he mumbled.

Footfalls heavy, he trudged across his room and to his bed, falling back on the thick, heavy comforter. The sun was shining through his window, perfectly highlighting the spot his bed bed was bolted down onto. It was warm, caressing his worn, scarred bones in a way he'd only been able to dream of most his life.

Here, where there weren't any prying eyes or cameras on him, he let his sockets drift shut for a moment.

Or a minute.

…. Or several.

When he opened his sockets again, the light had shifted a little, his left hand a little colder than the rest of his upper body – it was now out of the direct sunlight. The letter was in that same hand, and with a huff, he finally unfolded it with a short shake of an edge, eyelights quickly scanning the contents.

… Twice.

Okay, three times.

His arm fell, radius and ulna thunking against his skull to lay across his forehead. The paper rustled softly against his pillow, still clutched loosely in his hand. Staring without observing much at all, his mind rolled over the handful of lines you'd written to him.

Eventually, his arm slipped a little lower, the back of his forearm covering his once again closed sockets.

“everyone's the jackass,” he muttered to no one but the dust motes drifting serenely through the beams of afternoon sunlight.

* * *

> _some music magazines're good, i guess. haven't really explored mucha human shit._
> 
> _you guys have too much shit to even look at. how the fuck d'you know where to start? least your tvs just keep rollin' through whatever. not that it's all that great, but better than nothin'.  
> _

* * *

Apparently the mystery of who the jackass was would have to remain a mystery, you mused.

Your pen bobbed in your hand, curious eyes reading and rereading the letter you'd picked up on your way back from work. It had been five days, this time, since you'd sent yours.

… You couldn't help but try to insert all manner of possible meanings to this slightly longer time frame.

Did it take time for his letters to be approved?

Did he have to rewrite them if some admin thought they weren't appropriate?

Maybe he just was lazy... or maybe he didn't feel up to it. It was probably awkward for him too, right? Then again, maybe he didn't care either way – maybe he hated humans and was gritting his teeth the whole time- maybe your letters were just as awkward as part of you worried, or maybe you've said something to put him off somehow already-

You sighed, mentally waving off the wildly circulating internal theories.

Sure, any of them _could_ be true, but you had no proof- just a too-fast mind, when you least needed it to be whirring away.

This time, though, before you could forget – you properly dated your letter before you began the rest. You might not know how long his letters took to process and get mailed, but... well, at least _he_ could know. Maybe it wasn't a worry of his in the slightest, but hey... if it had crossed your mind, it wasn't impossible for it to have crossed his.

* * *

> _May 9 th, 20xx_
> 
> _Hey again :)_
> 
> _You're into music, then? That's cool! Any genre? Or instrument? I played some stuff in school, but never really got as into it as I'd like. I tend to have music playing most of the time, though, if I'm not actively watching something. It's reassuring. Fills the silence, helps me focus, helps me stay in the moment._
> 
> _And honestly, you're not wrong. We've got a problem with excess, haha..._
> 
> _I mean, I heard a fair bit of stuff got into the Underground, so... hopefully some of it was useful to monsters? But still. Honestly, I wouldn't know where to start either if I hadn't grown up with it all. I still don't know half the time. There's a reason it's a meme, scrolling through streaming services' options for longer than it'd take to just watch an episode of something, or even a whole movie..._
> 
> _I guess you watch a lot of stuff then, in the institute? Just to pass the time, or for fun?_
> 
> _Best,_
> 
> _Your Pen Pal._

* * *

> _may 16_
> 
> _i play a buncha shit, but guitar's all i got here. rock music, mostly._
> 
> _i'd [REDACTED]. [REDACTED] [REDACTED] streaming service [REDACTED] [REDACTED] someone thought it was funny to [REDACTED]. [REDACTED----------------------------------------------------------]._
> 
> _fun. ha. you're a fuckin **riot**._
> 
> _[REDACTED ---------]  
> _

* * *

> _May 19 th, 20xx_
> 
> _Hey there-_
> 
> _Your, uh, second paragraph was mostly censored. Something about a streaming service? And somebody thinking something was funny to... something? Oops. The last line too..._
> 
> _Rock music though, good taste! Same here, I like a lot of rock genres. Though in the theme of too much stuff these days, I've definitely got to say it's harder and harder to pin down what a lot of music's actual genre is, haha..._
> 
> _Hey though, I'm sorry if I said something rude. It's... hard to tell with half of what you wrote redacted, but... yeah. I guess let me know if I did and hopefully it'll go through._
> 
> _On a brighter note... hey, d'you like sunny weather? If so, hope you're getting to enjoy the upcoming week – the institute has some sort of big courtyard right? I listened to a tour interview thing on the radio and they said it was pretty decent, all circumstances considered. With any luck you can chill in the sun and listen to some music soon._
> 
> _Best,_
> 
> _Your Pen Pal_

* * *

You lifted your pen after the makeshift signature, hesitant.

His last letter... you'd actually gotten it yesterday.

The amount of blacked-out text had left a sinking feeling in your gut. You'd tried- several times – to swallow down the anxiety closing your throat, the worry you'd almost _certainly_ said something wrong, but...

In the end, you'd gone to bed after an evening full of unproductive half-hearted attempts to do other chores to clear your mind. You were left awake longer than your morning shift made you happy to be, tossing and turning restlessly, staring at the dark shadows of your room and unable to think of much besides your censored pen pal.

… ' _On a brighter note?'_

Stars above, you hoped you weren't belittling his feelings.

It was impossible to know – or to know what else he was going through. It was... part and parcel of this whole thing you'd willingly signed up for, you had to remind yourself. PTSD of some kind was a given, as was some sort of significant trouble integrating into Surface life, but... you were starting to get the feeling that he wasn't one of the patients that was the most pleased to be staying in the institute.

Of course, it wasn't like most people wanted to be checked into _anywhere_ like that, you figured – even if they wanted the help, they'd rather the problem just not exist, probably. But still. Some monsters went more voluntarily... while others, or so you'd heard, were basically ordered to by the Guard and monsterkind's rulers... and if they refused, they had to go live Underground until they were willing to go through the process.

That's about all you knew, even after quite a few internet searches during your lunch break. A lot of the news and intricacies of the monsters' updated political and social expectations were kept strictly amongst monsters. It was a terrible, complicated situation... but you supposed you could understand why the severe, red-eyed king and queen would be unwilling to risk major incident and by relation the good political will that was so hard to maintain with an uneasy and widely varied, opinionated human population. It didn't seem like there was _any_ easy answer to how to handle it. The institute seemed to genuinely come about for good reasons, operating as a specific mental health clinic both for outpatients and inpatients... but also it operated as the only stopgap accepted by _human_ government to try to help rehabilitate those monsters least able to control harsher impulses that couldn't be allowed in peacetime... rather than sending them to jail for their infractions.

Admittedly, you wished more human societal structures emphasized mental health care and socioeconomic support than across-the-board jailtime, but that was neither here nor there.

You sighed, running your hands over your face.

Even letter writing was complicated, it turned out...

Leaning on your elbows against the counter, sitting on one of the two barstools you kept tucked up under the lip of the living-room-side of the kitchen counter, you stared down at your letter and at the apparently crumpled-and-uncrumpled letter your pen pal had written.

You sighed.

“... There's nothing to do but keep trying,” you tried to assure yourself, but the encouragement felt a little weak even to your ears. “There's gonna be a learning curve, no matter what.”

Your gaze drifted during your little pep monologue, off to the other bits of mail you'd received. It had been a week before his reply, and you'd received another one of those glossy adverts for a new bar and grill in town. You'd actually looked it up after the first one's admittedly tempting pictures; apparently it was a popular place that had just moved locations and was now pretty close to your complex.

After a few moments, you came to a decision.

Quickly folding up your letter and stuffing it into the already addressed envelope before you could lose your nerve, you snagged a light jacket in forward thought to the setting sun, grabbed your basic things for going out, and locked up your apartment.

You dropped the letter off in the outgoing mail slot by the complex's mailboxes, and then kept on walking.

It seemed reasonable to reward yourself with something tasty from an apparently well-reviewed bar and grill run by a new monster local. Positive reinforcement for not losing heart at... at a mistake that involved, you could only assume, bad wording on your part.

A little liquid courage to ward off the self-doubt in your abilities as pen pal was just what you think the doctor ordered, personally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... aw man, I wonder why it took Red a week to reply to that one letter :(
> 
> ((also, thank you so so much to everyone who commented on the first chapter!! I was so floored at the support, I didn't think many people would be interested - it fueled me to finish up the second chapter even faster, so I hope you liked it, and are looking forward to meeting a certain fiery bartender next chapter :3c ))


	3. A Pal by Any Other Name

The new market district was only a five minute walk from your apartment, and you'd never been happier for that fact than when you realized this new bar and grill was located in the heart of it.

Faced in dark stone and far taller than it was wide, it gave you the impression of some sort of particularly stylish old world hearth, curving slightly crooked and twisted in a deliberately striking sort of way to form the three story building. A plant you could only describe as ivy but _pitch-black_ and glowing with little fire-flight like buds crept down from the eaves of the roof, framing the upper windows and down to part of the second story where a balcony overlaid some of the first floor, and some of the cobbled foot-traffic-only street where you stood. The balcony seating was packed, mostly with monsters, but a few humans were mixed in as well. All of them were enjoying the twilit sky above while jazzy music filtered from the open balcony windows.

On the light, occasional breeze came the scent of food that smelled, frankly, _criminally_ good.

The ground floor had wide but stylized windows that prevented a clear view of the restaurant within; it was crossed with iron bars, dividing the wavy, colored glass into small, attractive old-world style panes. The light from within nonetheless spilled outward, painting the street in rich sunset tones.

All of the new market district was a result of the influx of monsters into the low-income and partially-abandoned former warehouse district; locals called it the Monster Market, a name apparently coined by the matter-of-fact monsters themselves. They'd torn down a lot of the old crumbling buildings as soon as the city had given them the slightest okay, and every building that rose in it's place was wildly unique and utterly _fascinating_. From wild sizes and shapes accommodating the much more varied monster race, to buildings that some humans couldn't even properly enter – like the warehouse-turned-massive-aquarium-and-restaurant, connected to the river that ran behind it and allowing water-dwelling monsters a popular place to eat and gather. All the places in and around the market were of mixed purpose – places to eat or drink, to gather, to shop, and several mixed townhomes and small apartment-like buildings that were just as uniquely built as the stores.

This though, _this_ place – _Grillby's_ , apparently – might have your favorite sort of vibe yet, and despite the slight thrill of butterflies in your stomach, you were grinning when you pushed open one of the double doors.

If you thought the balcony was spirited, then the atmosphere inside was downright raucous.

In slight shock, paused just inside the doors, you took in booth-lined walls packed to the gills with monsters and a few humans too, doing everything from enjoying food to calling out shouts of bets to several aggressively lively card games going on at other tables - and at least one arm wrestling match between what you guessed was a human biker and an _extremely_ buff dog. The bar had a few more empty spots that the fairly full table and booths, but a fair number of patrons sat there, too, ordering all manner of drinks and facing the wall behind the bar that, rather than be lined with TVs like you might find at a human bar, was lined with cabinets full of more liquor than you think you'd ever seen in your life – and in more colors and varieties, too. The cabinets were separated at about the height of your chest with deep groove a couple of handspans high, the length of which ran the wall and was the home of an equally long stretch of dancing purple flame.

Off to your right was a low-sloped ramp that began close to the door, wrapping around the wall until it reached the second floor, where you could catch a peek of more tables, more people, and what seemed to be a window into a bustling kitchen.

“Y'gonna sit, or are you lookin' to catch flies with that open mouth, human?”

You startled, head whipping over your shoulder as you mouth snapped shut.

Over your shoulder and leaning against the wall was a beefy wolf monster, wearing a tight black shirt that had the bar's logo printed on it.

The bouncer, you realized immediately.

His head tilted ever so slightly, staring down at you out of one eye. The other, you noticed, was scarred over and shut, and the same scar wrapped down his muzzle and disappeared under the neckline of his shirt.

Grinning sheepishly, your hand lifted to rub at your neck. Your cheeks felt a bit warm. “Sorry- first time here. Got a few flyers and thought I'd cave in at last, y'know?”

There was a subtle shift in the wolf's unreadable expression as he stared down at you, and after a few seconds he tipped his head, a slight jerk towards the bar itself.

“... there's some free space at the bar.”

Perking up, you smiled as your hand fell from your neck into a small wave, turning back towards the bar to take him up on that. “Sweet, thanks!”

It took just a bit of dodging around some of the more packed tables, but soon enough you were pulling out one of the barstools that had space on either side. With a smooth enough hop up- well, step, clamber, and _then_ hop; the stools were taller than you were used to, no doubt accommodating for how large the majority of monsters were – you were settled in at the bar, staring at the vast selection of liquor before you...

...for all of two seconds.

As it turned out, your new vantage point was perfect for finally seeing the bartender himself.

Striding like the gleaming dark wood floors had grown once as trees for the sole purpose to one day support the graceful, powerful stride of his leather shoes, the eye-catching monster would not only tower over you if you were standing next to him, but was far more importantly made of vivid, mesmerizing purple flame.

Angular sunglasses rested on his face, highlighting a strong facial structure – not that you'd have ever assumed fire _could_ have anything so chiseled as the jawline he had. He wore a long, fitted coat draped over his shoulders, the collar of which was lined with pristine white fur; beneath the stylish way it framed him like a cloak, secured by a fine gold chain no less, was a slick sort of outfit one might expect underneath a suit jacket. An aubergine button-up vest, black shirt, black fitted slacks and a belt with a glimmer of gold – and rather than a tie, he wore his black shirt a few buttons undone, framing the column of his throat and allowing the flames of his chest to flicker on view with utter artistic intent.

Against all odds of what you'd think if you'd conceptualized the outfit on anyone else, he landed impeccably on the side of _handsomely flashy_ rather than _gaudily cringey._

He hardly needed further ornamentation – not with the way he'd neatly but roguishly rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, baring more of the purple flame that made up his equally chiseled forearms and broad hands...

Broad hands that were currently working the makings of a cocktail without the slightest hint of effort.

End over end he tossed the shaker, catching it behind his back before flipping it back around to his front in the same fell swoop – you barely registered the giggles and _oohs_ and _ahhs_ of the mixed monster and human women watching him, as well as more than a few wolf-whistles from a couple of nearby masculine monsters and more. From below the counter his other hand pulled three cocktail glasses, arched in a graceful fanning curve between his digits. The flicker of his flames cast the light through the glass like late afternoon sun through stained glass, and he set them down with an expert roll of his wrist in the same deft movement that he released the lid of the shaker and poured all three of the matching drinks in a single pour, not letting a single drop hit the counter.

With a swipe of his fingertip, he traced the edge of each glass, and they lit in flame- burning bright for a moment to a delighted gasp of the small crowd watching him, and then settling into a more gentle, playful flicker that would no doubt burn itself out before the minute was up. For now though he passed the drinks to the three girls that had ordered them.

You had to mentally shake yourself to stop your ongoing staring as they chatted him up and he responded, the chatter of the bar and the rich and dirty jazz emanating from some sort of speaker system obscuring whatever he was smirking and seemingly chuckling over as they, completely validly, fawned.

If you were a better person, perhaps you'd resist the inner urge to note just how _hot_ that show of his was, _pun intended._

You could pride yourself on failing that sort of test, though.

To distract yourself from making an obvious gawker of yourself for a _third_ time, you zeroed in on one of the many single-fold mini-menus propped up every so often along the stretch of the long bar. As well-styled as the rest of the bar, it was designed with a curious mix of impeccable taste and a dose of just enough cozy, down-to-earth features to keep you from feeling like it was too high class for the average person. It was full of both the primary drinks on tap, the specialty cocktails of the bar, and a small menu.

The size of the menu, actually, surprised you. The flyers had said the place was a bar _and_ grill; and sure, the menu items were grill-oriented, but... so few...?

“I am a monster who believes in _quality_ over _quantity_.”

Wide-eyed at the crackling, low purr of a voice that had come from the other side of the bar, your gaze shot up from menu to the brilliant blue-white concentration of fiery eyes gleaming at you from over the top of a sharp, angular pair of sunglasses.

The fiery bartender grinned, flames flickering in a fanglike stretch of a crooked, dangerous, _charming_ smile.

“I don't believe I've seen you around my bar before, little human. What's catching your eye?”

“You,” came from you before you could put your mind back from where it had dropped out of your hanging mouth.

The next moment, your whole body tensed up as you caught up with yourself, eyes going wider yet as vivid, hot color flared across your face – and as you watched his flames flare higher for the briefest, nigh-missable moment.

“ _Uh,_ ” you eloquently supplied to round out your answer.

Slowly, his head tilted down, shades slipping a tiny bit lower as more of the concentrated cerulean-white hot flames of his gaze were revealed as he clearly stared at you.

If you'd known how to recover, you would have, but instead your body apparently felt like sweating was the premium option.

A crackle like the consuming of a log in the fireplace came from him suddenly- and another, lower one, and-

-oh stars help you, he was _laughing_.

“Bold _and_ honest, you might have promise yet,” his warm voice intoned as his hand lifted, pushing his sunglasses up once more. His gaze was no longer visible, but that was probably best for the wellbeing of your heart. “Careful there... you might turn the color of, well, _me_.”

His wicked smirk stretched as his weight shifted, arms uncrossing to brace one against his hip, the other hand gesturing to his purple flames. You made a valiant attempt at willing your complexion to comply with your desperate wish to _be cool_ , but instead continued blushing, feeling halfway indignant and halfway exasperatedly amused.

In the end, that wry, amused smirk of his had you landing on the side of humor, and you laughed, slumping an elbow in defeat against the bar.

“I'm resigned to my fate,” you huffed with a grin. “I'd say you almost gave me a heart attack, but clearly I just needed to be paying more attention.”

“I must say, it's rare when someone doesn't see _me_ coming,” the bartender mused. You were pretty sure you saw him arch some sort of brow-equivalent – a concentration of slightly brighter flame above his glasses. It suited him. Naturally. You had a feeling very little _didn't_ suit him. “Something keeping you preoccupied? Besides me?”

That got a laugh out of you, and you leaned back with a playful roll of your eyes.

“Well, besides trying not to gawk at tall bright and striking,” you gestured amenably to the flaming bartender, and he mocked a slight bow in return, his smirk still wide, “I've taken up something of a... hobby? New preoccupation? And I've a need to get my mind off my latest attempt before I completely back out.”

You didn't realize it, but the painful twist of embarrassment in your chest at your slip-up earlier had disappeared.

“Ah, a wise human indeed – a bar is the perfect place to misplace one's mind,” his head tilted slightly, indicating the direction of the menu you'd been parsing through. While you were grinning at the play of his words, he seemed to pause, then – and you _swore_ you could almost _hear_ the narrowing of his gaze behind those shades- “... and was that a _pun_ , my dear?”

It took you a moment.

“- _striking_ ,” you said, with the airs of someone who was very tempted to snap their fingers in emphasis at the same time, “ha! Honestly, no- but now that it's there, I'm not taking it back.”

He crackled a low huff, arms boldly crossing his chest once more. If you didn't know better, you'd have sworn that the monster made of pure flame in front of you had well-defined muscles just beneath the flickering glow of his flames.

“And here I was, thinking my bar might be lacking in the damned things for a while yet,” he said wryly. You tilted your head – he certainly didn't seem mad, more that same level of amused, but... there was something else, too.

Before you could think of how to ask after it, though, he was moving on so smoothly your mind was just as seamlessly swept along.

“I see your gaze is returning to- aha, the house special, excellent taste. And for a drink-?”

It took only a few more moments of your waffling – they all looked so _good_ – before he was offering to mix you one based on what he could guess your taste might be. You were skeptical, and it showed – he simply grinned, flickering brilliant forge of a mouth sharp with something akin to fangs, and swore if he was wrong, the drink was on the house.

Well, with that kind of confidence...

* * *

  
  


“You _had_ to have cheated.”

“If you have a theory as to how I could have cheated, I'm all flames, my dear.”

“... Mind reading??”

“An admirable swing, and a stunning strikeout.”

“But it's _perfect_. I've never even had this kind of cocktail before-”

“Call it an expertly honed skill, with a dash of natural gift.”

You stuck your tongue out at the smarmy bartender, now on your third drink that you had made an internal promise to make your last... and to keep yourself to your word, you had _also_ just finished closing out your tab with Grillby.

 _Grillby_ , yes – because though your embarrassed, stunned mind had fumbled the way he'd slyly introduced himself initially, the decidedly devilish bartender was indeed the owner and proprietor of what was almost certainly your new favorite place to eat.

The meal had been the best you'd had in longer than you could recall – pricey, but not exorbitant, and frankly worth every cent.

The _drinks_ though... those were on a whole other level.

“Keep your secrets, then – your impossible dark arts of making the _literal most satisfying_ drinks perfectly suited to someone's taste after only glancing at them,” you proclaimed, faux exasperation and resignation on your face. He chuckled at the act, and you were grinning again.

It wasn't like you'd been talking the whole time, he ran the whole bar after all, but he'd dropped by frequently, including to bring you your food – presumably to please himself at how, perhaps predictably, happily you'd exclaimed over the first bite.

Hell, if he kept serving food and drinks like he had, he could watch you the whole damn time for all you cared - embarrassment be damned.

“Are you quite sure you've no wish to linger for an _aperitif_ , my dear?” Grillby mused, that brow of his arching once more.

“Oh no you don't,” you shot back, placing your empty glass on the countertop once more. All finished, to your chagrin, but you were firm on this. You'd had enough food and paced it to where you weren't drunk, but you still had to get home, walking or no. You grinned nonetheless, adding, “but thank you- consider me more than tempted enough to make visiting here as regularly as my wallet will allow.”

“You are a local, as I recall,” Grillby mused. “I do believe making connections with those willing to live in and near our dear market are worth having around frequently.”

Your head tilted, racking your brain. “Did I mention that I lived nearby...?”

Grillby simply smiled.

You frowned, looking at him pointedly. With the flush of the warmth of the liquor he'd served you warming your cheeks, and the lack of tension from both that and the incredible meal, you were sure it looked more like a pout than disapproval, but it was worth a shot.

It drew a chuckle out of him once again, and he lifted a single hand, as if to ease down the hackles of a harmless puppy.

“A monster has sharp eyes, even if you can't see them, my dear. It's how those of us still here have survived,” he said, and you got the sense that his gaze was sharply watching you indeed as you reacted to those words. He continued, “your shoes, your jacket, the sweep of your hair, the tint of your complexion as you came in – it indicated walking, not taking a vehicle. Amongst other hints.”

You swore his head tilted up- as if looking behind you. But when you turned to glance in the same direction, besides the otherwise preoccupied tables still going their rowdy but apparently good-humored way about their business as the night grew darker yet outside, you only saw the bouncer.

Shrugging lightly to yourself as you turned back around, you looked up at Grillby once more to find him watching you again.

And... with his words, you realized you had a question that was hanging heavy on your alcohol-loosened tongue.

… Could he see it too? With the way he stood there, you couldn't help but suspect he certainly _usually_ saw more than he let on.

“... You don't have to answer this,” you ventured slowly, weighing each word. His brow curved slightly upwards, but other than that, his expression didn't shift. “But... Hm. If... you were to give any advice to a human who was writing letters to a monster, what would it be?”

A beat passed, and you found you couldn't read him at all.

“Would this be what you wished to take your mind off of earlier?” he replied, rich voice giving no apparent opinion away.

Hoping that _no apparent opinion_ was better than having crossed some cultural line, you nodded, smile lifting ruefully.

“I see... and have you written this monster before?”

You sighed, nodding again.

“It did not go well?”

You pulled a slight face, then wiggled a hand half-heartedly.

Grillby chuckled then, and you watched him with a glimmer of tentative hope.

“... Do not assume you know what may be going on in this monster's head,” he said carefully. You nodded, leaning forward a little, as if it'd help you imprint his advice in your mind all the better. “We have been on the Surface for two years, but... even for talkative, well-adjusted types, I will say nothing more revealing than to promise you it would be at _best_ a terribly incomplete assumption, no matter how certain you may feel of some basic fact or other.”

He considered you then, purple flames swaying and dancing along his form. Someone down the bar called for his attention, and he barely glanced their way and gave them the slightest nod before looking back at you, nigh unreadable.

You waited, trying not to feel _too_ many mixed emotions in anticipation-

“Do not get discouraged, if nothing else.”

You blinked.

If asked you wouldn't have been able to say what you _were_ expecting, but... that wasn't it.

A subtle flicker at the corner of his curious mouth of flame appeared and was gone, just as quickly. He shrugged a little, shifting back, clearly done with whatever advice he'd felt inclined to indulge you in.

“Thank you,” you managed quickly, even as your mind began unhelpfully picking apart his words. “For the advice – and for the food and drink. I really do mean what I said – it was _incredible_ ,” you emphasized, your heart wholly behind your words as you shook off the webs of pondering his slightly cryptic advice. Smiling once more, you hopped down from your stool, patting your pockets to assure yourself you had your things, even as you looked back up at him. “I really will be back soon.”

Paid up, comfortably tipsy, and full of food for thought on top of it, you turned to leave, offering Grillby one last wave.

Your name, given at some point during your exchanges during your stay at his bar, was called then, and had you turning back to Grillby after only a few steps.

“- good luck with the letters,” Grillby said, his sunglasses, for the first time since he'd walked up to you, once more lowered just enough for you to see the brighter glint of his actual gaze. “Do feel free to write your letters here, if you're the type who likes to multitask.”

“You just want me to stay and pay for more rounds of your criminally good drinks while I waffle over word choice,” you accused lightly, despite your ill-hidden smile.

That got a laugh out of Grillby, and he shrugged a little, turning to walk down the bar to attend to other customers with a wickedly smug smile. “Surely, you've caught me guilty as charged, little letter-writer.”

“Very convincing,” you called after him, almost annoyed at how charming he was. It _had_ to be illegal – but, still, charmed you were.

You turned away once more, navigating the still-lively ground floor as you grumbled good-naturedly to yourself.

“No wonder he runs a bar. Has to swindle half the population out of their savings between that knack and his food and drinks.”

It occurred to you, as you passed by the bouncer and offered him a wave – a fact that seemed to slightly surprise him, but earned you a slight nod as you walked out the door – that getting excellent, charming customer service while also eating the best meal of your life and having your taste in drinks so well-guessed you had to consider conspiracy and literal telepathy was in play was, perhaps, the most ideal goal of any restaurant operation.

 _Still_.

… Damn it all, though, you chuckled to yourself as the cool night air had you tucking your hands into your jacket pockets.

You really _were_ going to have to consider writing a letter or two at Grillby's... If only to have the excuse and built-in reward to visit again sooner rather than later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: ah, Grillby'll be a short enough appearance, I can totally fit the next scene in once I'm done writing this bit-  
> Grillby: _Bold of you to assume_
> 
> (ongoing infinite thank you's to everyone who's commenting!! I keep going back and rereading them all and get all fired up all over again to keep writing, so it's thanks to you cuties that the chapter updates keep coming like this~! (≧◡≦) ♡ )

**Author's Note:**

> Overall this won't be an epic of a long fic, probably around 50-70k, but I hope you enjoy it! :)


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